


crash into me

by fadeastride



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Crossdressing, First Time, M/M, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 19:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3145508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeastride/pseuds/fadeastride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And that’s not some chick.</p><p>That’s fucking <i>Pat</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	crash into me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xochi44](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xochi44/gifts).



> Nebulously set in 2011.
> 
> I swear to god I never meant to write this.
> 
> And, because I'm batting a thousand here, this was also supposed to be done by Christmas. So, a belated Merry Christmas to Xochi, who held my hand while I wrote this.
> 
> Sort-of playlist [here](http://open.spotify.com/user/1236856994/playlist/6rE7qKzo6Wm8xQOfz03znH)
> 
> I'm embarrassing [here](http://fadeastride.tumblr.com) on a daily basis

He’s got four years in the league and his name on the Stanley fuckin’ Cup and Pat still can’t keep track of how many guys chirp him for his pretty little mouth every season. It’s not like it’s anything new. Dudes started trash talking Pat’s mouth and hair and size when he was like 13 and it’s sure as hell not stopping any time soon. So he just smiles, winks, and strips the puck right off their sticks.

Those guys, though. They don’t _know_.

Sometimes. Okay. Sometimes Pat likes being pretty.  
\------------------------------------  
It was kind of an accident, how it all started. He’d picked up this chick one night, a smoking hot brunette named Mia who was way out of his league. When he finally got her home, she’d pinned him against the wall, hand stroking his dick through his jeans while they made out.

At some point, she’d stepped back to pull off his shirt and then huffed out a little laugh before pressing the tips of her fingers to his mouth.

“Oh shit,” she’d whispered. “I got my lipstick all over you.”

Pat had fidgeted under her appraising look and she’d smiled at him, all teeth.

“It looks good on you. The color, I mean. God, you’re fuckin’ pretty.”

And he’d heard it before, heard it so many times. But the way she said it, like it wasn’t an insult, like she actually thought his being pretty was hot? That had definitely been new.

She’d brushed her thumbs over his cheeks, said he was absolutely fucking stunning, and he’d felt heat coil low in his stomach.

That had been new, too.

She’d worked his fly open and slithered to her knees while his brain was still trying to process it. He’d let his head fall back against the wall with a thud at the first curl of her tongue, let his vision go hazy at the first twist of her hand. But he’d watched her, fuchsia lips smeared and messy and filthy-looking. And he’d thought, _Jesus, she looks beautiful_.

And then he’d thought, _I want to be that beautiful._

He mostly remembers coming so hard that he’d almost crushed her when his legs gave out beneath him. He doesn’t remember getting her off at all, prays that he at least _did_. He _does_ remember her leaving her little clutch next to him when she went to the bathroom to clean up.

He’s not proud, but he definitely remembers stealing the tube of lipstick out of it.  
\--------------------------------------  
It’s a slow process, figuring out how to make himself up. There’s a six month stretch of Youtube videos, little cardboard packages, and hours in front of the mirror before Pat’s got a makeup look down well enough that he’d be willing to leave the house in it. It’s another three months to get the hair right, a string of trials and errors involving flat irons and curlers and dryers and more sticky, scented products than he cares to count.

Figuring out women’s clothing is a project of its own. Bras are an abomination unto man and God, those little chicken cutlet things the internet tells him to stuff said bras with are the fuckin’ weirdest shit he’s ever touched, and the pile of skirts he still needs to return reminds him to be thankful for the standardization of men’s sizing.

All in all, it’s about a year before he works up the courage to leave the house all dolled up. He doesn’t do it often, maybe once every couple of months. He’s careful in his planning: smaller places on quieter nights, never the same place twice.

He knows he’s being a little less careful tonight, but getting shutout by Vancouver is fucking embarrassing and he needs this.

He’s still slow at getting ready, doesn’t understand how his sisters manage to do this so quickly every morning when it takes him at least an hour. He doesn’t mind it taking so long, though. There’s something kind of relaxing about bopping around his guest bathroom to some seminal pop classics, hair pinned around hot rollers.

(Not to mention that the one time he’d tried to speed through everything, he’d stabbed himself in the eye with a mascara wand and that’s not something he’s trying to do again. That shit _hurt_.)

He’s got a few outfits he rotates through on these nights, but tonight calls for something a bit different. He lays the little sequined sweater on the bed so he can pull the tags off his new black skirt. Pencil skirts aren’t usually his style, but he’d bought it on a whim and he knows his ass looks great in it.

He pulls the garter belt on, makes sure it’s lying flat. He’s careful when he slides the stockings over his calves, keeps his nails out of the way so he doesn’t snag the thin material when he loops it over the hooks. 

The guys give him so much shit for his day-to-day wardrobe but he doesn’t care what he looks like most the time. As he shimmies into his skirt and slips on his favorite kitten heels, he wonders what they’d have to say about how he looks now.  
  
\--------------------------------------  
  
Jonny doesn’t usually go out drinking by himself; if he’s gonna drink alone, he can do it at home just fine, thanks. But it had been a shitty loss and he’d never admit it, but it’s kind of helping to not be sitting in silence.

He’s not gonna try to take anyone home, but he’s enjoying watching this girl flirt with a couple of guys a few tables over. She’s totally his type – tall, stacked blonde with a great ass – but she looks a little familiar. He can’t place it, but he thinks maybe he’s hooked up with her before and he’s not about to potentially catch hell from her when he can’t remember her name.

One of the guys has her by the hand now and is spinning her slowly, wolf whistling his appreciation. She’s mid-turn and smiling wide and Jonny feels like he’s been punched in the throat.

Because he’d know that smile anywhere.

And that’s not some chick.

That’s fucking _Pat_.

Pat. In full makeup and a pencil skirt. And Jonny should be more embarrassed about how into it his dick is.

He and his dick are pretty into Pat all the time though, so. 

He knows there’s no way Pat’s seen him yet, so he lets himself watch while he nurses his drink. Watches the line of his throat when he throws his head back to laugh at something this guy’s saying. Watches the way his hair bounces when he shakes his head, mouth shaping the word “sorry” with a face that looks almost remorseful. 

The guy’s getting a little more aggressive though, hand wrapped around Pat’s wrist, and even in the low light Jonny can see the way Pat’s smile has gone tight at the edges. He’s tugging gently, trying to free himself, but the guy’s just stepping a little farther into Pat’s space and not letting go.

Jonny has to set his glass back down on the bar because right now, right now he wants to throw it at this fucking asshole.

He can see the moment that Pat realizes the only way he’s getting out of this is by decking this guy and shutting down Deadspin. Jonny thinks he might kill this dude first.

Instead, he sidles up next to Pat and slips an arm around his waist, says “C’mon babe, I think it’s time to go.”

Pat’s face is this mix of embarrassed and terrified and relieved, but he nods and lets Jonny guide him outside once Pushy Asshole drops his wrist. Jonny doesn’t take his hand off the small of Pat’s back until they get to the car.

Neither one of them says a word the whole way back to Jonny’s condo.

\--------------------------------------  
Now Pat’s standing in Jonny’s kitchen, hands tugging nervously at the hem of his skirt, and Jonny _wants_.

“So, uh,” Pat says. “I’m not. I’m not, like, ashamed or anything, but if you could not tell the guys about this, I’d appreciate it.”

Jonny nods. “Of course. But I still think we need to talk about this because what the fuck, Patrick.”

It comes out harder than he means it to and he watches as Pat flinches but he can’t stop himself.

“Were you seriously gonna pick up?” Jonny asks. “Shit, are you even into guys?”

Pat’s back is so, so straight now, shoulders squared, jaw tilted up like a challenge. “Dude, _no_ , I was not gonna pick up. And yeah, I.” He falters, just a little, then surges on. “I am into guys. Is that a fucking problem?”

When Jonny chuckles, it’s this low rumbling thing deep in his chest.

It’s not a problem.

It’s so far from being a problem.

He’s standing too close to Pat, who still looks like he’s braced to take a punch. Jonny lifts his hand to cup Pat’s jaw and Pat’s eyes go wide.

There’s a moment of absolute stillness where Jonny’s not sure Pat’s even breathing, knows he’s not breathing himself, knows his fear would drown him now if he’d only let it.

Instead, he settles his thumb against the curve of Pat’s bottom lip, featherlight, questioning.

His answer is a shaky exhalation of breath and Pat’s hands going lax at his sides.

Jonny presses down and drags his thumb, stains a crimson trail away from Pat’s mouth. Pat’s eyes flutter closed and this, this is the fucking hottest thing he’s ever seen.

“Jesus, Pat,” he says, quiet. “Look at you. You’re fucking gorgeous.”

He stares for a moment, just trying to take everything in.

“Can, can I –“

“ _Yeah_.”

He leans in, tentative, and meets Pat’s lips with his own. 

Pat kisses back, hesitant at first, like he’s shy about it. Jonny pushes his thumb into the hinge of Pat’s jaw and slides his tongue in when Pat opens his mouth in response.

It’s a little sloppy, but in the best possible way, and Pat uses his teeth as much as Jonny always thought he might.

“Gotta get this fuckin’ thing off,” Jonny says, working Pat’s bra open under his shirt before pulling them both off in one fluid movement.

Pat huffs out a laugh. “You should take your shirt off, too, asshole." He pushes his hands under the hem of Jonny's shirt and pulls it over his head, letting it drop on the floor behind them. He lets Jonny crowd him against the table and slot their legs together, grinds down. 

Pat's hard in his skirt, fabric stretched tight over his dick. When he reaches for the zipper, Jonny stops him. 

"Leave it on, " he says, feeling his cheeks flame, but Pat's staring at him, open-mouthed and wide-eyed and nodding.

"God, Jonny, I wanna...can I blow you?"

Jonny leans his head back and groans. "Oh, fuck yes."

Pat’s smile is predatory as he works Jonny’s fly open and pulls his jeans down his thighs. He hooks his fingers into Jonny’s underwear and tugs those down, too.

He has to hold onto the table to sink to his knees without falling and Jonny has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing when he mutters, “How the hell do chicks do this?” under his breath.

Jonny bites down again when Pat leans forward and wraps his tongue around the head of his cock. He takes Jonny in with a steady, practiced slide, cheeks hollowed, and he’s fucking good at this. Jonny doesn’t want to think about how he got this good, just wants to run his fingers through Pat’s hair and watch his dick disappear into that mouth.

Pat looks up at him with bright eyes, dark lips smudged where they're stretched around Jonny's cock. His mascara's running a bit at the corners and Jonny wants to fuck his mouth till mascara's streaming down his face.

It’s all kind of too much and Jonny needs to stop before he goes off like a teenager.

“Hey, get back up here,” he murmurs, helping Pat back to his feet. “As much as I’d love to come in your mouth, I was kind of hoping to fuck you tonight.”

Pat makes a startled sound high in his throat. “Jesus fuckin Christ, Jonny.”

Jonny stills, his hands loosening on Pat’s elbows. “Was that too - should I not have-”

“No, shit, that was. We should. Do that.”

“You want me to fuck you?”

“ _Yes._ ”

Pat’s staring right at him, not blinking, not looking away. Jonny spins him around and bends him forward, holds his palms flat against the table.

“Keep them there for me, yeah?” Jonny waits for the assent before tugging Pat’s skirt up over his hips. Pat’s skin is soft and pale above the black lace stockings held up by red silk.

He thinks about Pat’s deft hands fastening the garters - smooth, deliberate movements as he works the lace into the clasp – and runs his fingers along the taut line of the suspenders.

Jonny can’t help but tease. “Blackhawks colors, Peeks? You would.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t into it.”

When he looks up, Pat’s ears are red and the flush is spreading down the back of his neck and across his shoulders. It’s fucking glorious and Jonny needs to put his mouth there, like, yesterday.

He’s thinking about exactly where he wants to set his teeth when Pat clears his throat a little.

“I’ve never actually…done this before.”

Jonny pauses. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t-“

“No, no, fuck you, I want to. I just. Figured you should know.”

He can see the way Pat’s arms have tensed, knows he’s waiting for Jonny to give him shit or back out or something, like Jonny’s ever wanted to be anywhere but here. He leans down and rests his forehead between Pat’s shoulder blades.

“I’m gonna take care of you, babe.” He lets his lips just graze skin and feels Pat shiver. “Gonna take such good care of you." He dips his fingers beneath the elastic of Pat's panties. "Now let's get these off."

He takes a moment to appreciate the sight of Pat, still in his garters and stocking-feet, skirt bunched high over his hips, but otherwise naked, standing bent over his kitchen table.

It’s beautiful.

“You alright, dude?” Pat asks.

Jonny startles. “Yeah, I was just. Yeah. I’m just gonna.”

He digs through a small decorative box in his junk drawer and comes up with a condom and a tiny bottle of lube. He tosses the condom on the table and clicks the bottle open.

“In the kitchen, seriously? You’re such a Boy Sc- _fuck_.” Pat sucks in a breath as Jonny traces a finger over his hole.

Jonny grins, sharp. “Hasn’t failed me yet.”

“What, you fuck people in your kitchen on the regular?”

“No, but it’s not exactly failing me now.”

He presses his finger in, watches the slow slide of it, listens to the little whine Patrick can’t quite muffle in time.

He works him open excruciatingly slow, partly because he really does want to make sure Pat’s ready, and partly because he thinks he could listen to Pat whimper like this for days.

Pat's fingers stretch and curl like he's searching for something to hold on to, but his hands never move from where Jonny'd pinned them.

He's louder now, whimpers giving way to a litany of increasingly insistent curses.

It's the, "For the love of God will you just fuck me already, Jonny, _please_ ," that makes Jonny get his shit together.

He kicks his jeans the rest of the way off. It’s sheer strength of will that keeps his hands from shaking when he rolls the condom on. 

“You gotta let me know if you need me to do anything, okay?” Pat jerks his head a little in what Jonny thinks is supposed to be a nod, but that’s not enough, not for this.

“Hey,” he says, dragging his knuckles along Pat’s jaw until Pat looks at him. “Promise me you’ll tell me.” 

This time, Pat nods for real, says _I promise_ like he means it.

Jonny lines up and pushes in slow, so slow, holding his breath till he bottoms out.

“Are you, Peeks, is it-”

“Just. Just give me a second.” Pat’s eyes are squeezed shut and his breathing is shallow. “Okay. I think. God, okay, yeah, I’m." He shifts a bit, pulls away from Jonny, and then fucks himself back on Jonny’s dick.

If Jonny had thought he was in control of this situation, he knows better now. He's never been in control of any situation involving Pat, not really. 

“I thought,” Pat says, breathless voice belying his otherwise mocking tone as he rocks himself back again. “I thought you were gonna fuck me.”

Jonny rolls his hips experimentally and revels in the punched out sound Pat makes. He curves a hand over Pat's shoulder and thrusts up again, still slow but harder this time, leans back to watch his dick slide in and in and in. 

He snaps a suspender and Pat drops his head down, mess of hair hiding his face.

“Your fucking curls, Christ,” Jonny says, winding his fingers through Pat’s hair. “Your hair’s always all over the place and, god, sometimes I just wanna fucking pull it.”

Pat’s got his fingers spread wide, forehead pressed against the table, and Jonny almost misses his ragged voice whispering, “Do it, c’mon, do it do it do it.”

So Jonny pulls hard, hauls Pat upright until he can get his mouth on Pat’s neck. When he scrapes his teeth over the place where neck meets shoulder, Pat moans, low and long. Jonny can’t keep himself from biting down. 

When Jonny hooks his chin over Pat’s shoulder, watches the way his abs contract and relax, he can see Pat’s fingertips still pressed to the table. 

He’s not gonna last much longer and he knows it, needs Pat to get there too.

“Show me,” he whispers. “Show me how you touch yourself,” and Pat’s scrambling to get a hand on his dick.

Jonny watches as long as he can, takes in the way Pat keeps his touch soft and loose before running his thumb firmly over the head, but it’s too much.

He lays a gentle kiss on the back of Pat’s neck and, for as loud as Pat is most of the time, he’s almost completely silent when he falls apart. His body goes tense right before his knees give out and Jonny wraps one arm around his waist to keep him upright for three, four more thrusts and then Jonny’s coming too. He’s louder than Pat, a litany of French and English and god only knows what else pouring from his mouth.

They stand there for a minute, Jonny tangling his free hand with the one Pat had kept on the table, before Jonny gives up on being upright. He pulls Pat down into the chair with him, holds him safe in the vee of his spread legs.

“I...wow.”

“Is that a good wow or a bad wow?” Jonny closes his eyes while he tries to steady his breathing.

He can feel the way Pat’s laugh vibrates out of him when he says, “Oh, that was definitely a good wow.”

Jonny’s got questions he’s not sure he has any right to ask, but he’s gotta ask them.

“As in, do this again, good?”

Pat is so, so quiet when he answers.

“More like should’ve been doing this for a while now, really.”

Oh, thank _god_.

“Next time you want to go out like this, let me know, okay? And you can flirt and dance and do whatever you want, but then you should come home with me.” Jonny starts shaky but he’s damn near got his captain voice on by the end. 

Pat’s got his head turned to look at Jonny and Jonny’s scared to meet his eyes, but when he glances up, Pat’s nodding at him. So he barrels on.

“Even if you don’t want to go out, I want you to come home with me.” 

And Pat’s smiling, the soft one Jonny’s only ever seen him use for his sisters and that one girlfriend. All he says is “For sure, Jonny. For sure,” but there’s a promise in it.


End file.
